Chartreuse
by V. Revon
Summary: The women of the Graves family were cursed; going back generations, everything from lost love to swindled fortune to mysterious deaths, and Eleanor "Nell" Graves was determined not to fall prey to it. She lived mostly off the grid, kept her financial means relatively unremarkable, didn't bother with love, and above all was very, very careful. Loki/OC, set during/after Ragnarok
1. To Be Safe

Nell's alarm woke her at 6:45 a.m. She yawned, stretched, and checked the calendar.

"Wednesday," she murmured. Wednesday meant Mrs. Halvorsen in the morning and Mr. Berg in the afternoon.

Mrs. Halvorsen was a sweet old woman with cataracts who continually confused Nell with her daughter, and Mr. Berg always insisted he didn't need her, despite being confined to a wheelchair. She sighed.

"I'll wear the dark sweater today," she said to herself. "Mr. Berg likes the dark one."

It had been three years for her, living in Tønsberg near the Norwegian coast. She had fallen into a rather regular habit, working as a caretaker for aging residents living far from the city itself. They were all spread out in cottages and houses along the coastlines and cliffsides, requiring her to travel between them. It was monotonous, sure, but she figured monotony was safe.

She stepped over Mrs. Halvorsen's threshold, removing her thick scarf. " _God morgen, fru Halvorsen._ "

"Sigyn!" Mrs. Halvorsen hobbled in from the living room as Nell deposited her purse and puffy coat on a chair in the kitchen.

Nell gave her a melancholy smile. She'd seen pictures of Mrs. Halvorsen's late daughter, and she supposed there was a sort of resemblance: similar light hair, similar small nose. Nell had a wider face though, eyes less blue. She didn't bother correcting her; it would just upset the older woman. " _Vil du ha egg til frokost_?" _Would you like eggs for breakfast?_

It'd taken a long while to be proficient enough in Norwegian to pass the citizenship tests and qualify for this job, but even now she ached for English. Her tongue folded over the words like trying to curl around marbles.

She cooked Mrs. Halvorsen's breakfast, straightened up, and then it was time for Mr. Berg.

" _God ettermiddag,_ " she greeted him with a smile.

He grunted in response, seated in front of a small, fat TV set. She made him lunch, did a load of laundry, and received another grunt of acknowledgement when she left.

Thursdays were Mr. Lund and Mr. Eriksen, Fridays were Mr. and Mrs. Holm. Everything was as normal...until Monday.

Someone new had been added to her rotation, though the company who organized her schedule wouldn't give her much information other than his name. Mr. Borson lived in a little three-room cabin on one of the smaller, jutting peninsulas near Teigsberget, situated at the edge of the water and the base of a peak.

Nell glanced up from the small sheet of paper on which she'd printed her instructions as his location forced her to park a ways off and walk the remaining distance. It was a good thing he'd be her only trip on Mondays, she thought. He was so much farther from everyone else.

She knocked twice on the door, her boots squishing through the muddied, sandy ground.

"Mr. Borson?" she called. " _Jeg heter Eleanor._ " _My name is Eleanor_. She waited a beat. " _Caring Hands sendte meg._ " _Caring Hands sent me._

The door opened to reveal a weathered-looking older man with long white hair and, strangely enough, an eyepatch. _Not the weirdest thing I've seen_ , Nell dismissed. Mr. Lund had an actual wooden leg.

"Your accent needs work," said Mr. Borson. He stepped back to let her in as her brow furrowed. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable with your first language?"

She couldn't help the rush of relief at the more familiar words. He spoke English surprisingly well, and she welcomed it. "Thank you."

His home was sparsely furnished, just the basics, and there were no family photos or personal items anywhere. Even grouchy Mr. Berg had photos of his grandson dotting the walls.

"So," he said, his voice distinctly British, "Caring Hands sent you."

"That's right." She hesitated before taking off her coat.

"And what would they have you do?"

"Cleaning, cooking, errands," Nell said. "Medical care, if it's necessary."

She glanced around. There wasn't much to clean, since he didn't seem to _have_ much. It was clear that he was capable and mobile, so no medical care. She wondered why Caring Hands had even sent her if there wasn't going to be anything to do, but then she saw the state of his fridge.

"Bread…" She blinked and opened all the cabinets. "Peanut butter? Is this all you have?"

Mr. Borson didn't answer, but she didn't really need an answer. There was no way she was going to let the man eat nothing but _peanut butter sandwiches_ —

"There's a grocer in Asgardstrand," she said, shrugging her coat back over her shoulders. "I'll be right back. Do you have a preference on protein? Meat or fish?"

Mr. Borson said nothing and she wondered if this would be another Mr. Berg situation. "I'm partial to pork," he said finally, and she pocketed that as a victory.

"I'll make pork loin then," she said. "I think the butcher should have that."

When she returned with armfuls of grocery bags, intending to full stock his fridge, she found him staring out the window at the water. She set to work preparing pork loin with potatoes and carrots, making a mental list— _what else can I make him so that he has enough meals until I come back next week_ —and while she cooked, Mr. Borson put out place settings for two.

"I don't have to stay," she said hurriedly, "if you don't want company—"

"Nonsense," Mr. Borson said. "You're doing all the work. I don't mind company."

* * *

Nell wanted desperately to break the silence as they ate. He had given her a kind smile as he took his first bite of the meat, but nothing since then. She cut a potato with the side of her fork.

"So, Eleanor," said the man across the table. His good eye met her gaze. He seemed kind, patient, but there was something weathered about his face. He looked so _tired_. "Why are you here?"

She almost choked on a piece of potato. "I was just trying to be nice—and I already cook for Mrs. Halvorsen, it's no trouble—"

"Not that, child. Why are you here? It's clear Norway isn't your place of origin."

She stared at her plate. "I just...this was the safest place I could think of."

Mr. Borson raised an eyebrow. "And what do you need to be safe from?"

Nell felt her cheeks burn and muttered, "You're going to think I'm silly and superstitious."

The older man gave her a doubting look and gestured for her to go on, chewing slowly. She sighed.

"My family has a...history. The girls of my family, at least. We tend to attract misfortune in one way or another. My mom married into the family, so she's been alright, but my sister and I…" Nell shifted uncomfortably in her seat when she mentioned her sister. "Anyway, I used to live in New York City, and when the Avengers set up shop...it's better not to tempt fate, don't you think?"

She gave a wry smile and noted how his spine stiffened at her mention of the American city. It was clear he'd heard what happened in New York. Something like pain flashed across his features. She pretended she hadn't seen; it wasn't her place to pry.

"How does your family feel?" he asked instead, deflecting slightly. "About you living all the way out here?"

Nell nibbled on her bottom lip. "I haven't talked to them much since New York."

He observed her, scrutinized her with a firm gaze. "Family is very important, Eleanor," he said quietly. He speared a carrot with his fork. "Thank you for the meal."

* * *

When she returned next, a book tucked under her arm, he chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"Some light reading?" He gestured at the book.

She frowned, glancing at the spine: _Count of Monte Cristo_ , by Alexandre Dumas. "It's a bit thick, I suppose." She placed it on the table, suddenly self-conscious. Her copy was particularly beat-up, and now she felt oddly...embarrassed about it.

"My son is a little like you. One of them, at any rate." A blink of sadness flooded his face and then vanished.

"You have sons," Nell said, relieved that he was talking about himself now. "How many?"

"Two."

"And only one of them likes books?"

"My sons have...dramatically different tastes."

Nell nodded sagely. "I understand that completely, my sister and I—" Nell clamped her mouth shut, catching her cheek between her teeth, and felt the sting as she broke skin.

Mr. Borson didn't pry, didn't even seem to acknowledge her slip, and she was grateful for that.

"What would you like for dinner tonight, Mr. Borson?" she asked.

She chopped onions while a pot simmered on the stove for a soup. He sat at the table, flipping the pages of her book.

"Do you enjoy this story? It seems to be quite...dense." He turned the page again.

She chuckled. "It's one of my favorites."

He lifted the worn novel. "Yes, it appears it's been well-read. What is it about?"

"A man named Dantes is falsely arrested and imprisoned without trial in an inescapable island prison." She dropped the onions into the pot and moved on to cutting carrots and celery. "He figures out who was behind his imprisonment, manages to escape the prison, and disguises himself as the powerful and wealthy Count of Monte Cristo in order to get his revenge."

He didn't respond, and she stayed quiet in her embarrassment, returning to her knife. _I wonder if his son would appreciate the book._

"Have you ever thought, Eleanor, that you were not running from danger or from bad luck, but were in fact running from the opportunity to live? Running from your fate, as it were."

Nell paused, knife hovering mid-air above the cutting board. "I wouldn't be living," she responded in a clipped tone. She thought about her sister. "I would be dead, or broke, or...I don't view constant anxiety as a way of life I should aspire to. I don't accept that as my fate."

"You could be meant for greater things, but you'll never know if you keep rejecting the possibility."

Nell slammed the knife onto the counter, trying and failing to keep her tone from getting defensive, to check her rising anger. "And what do you know of greater things, old man?" she ground out through clenched teeth.

The older man said nothing, guilt nagging at her, and when her breathing calmed, she resumed chopping with a mumbled apology.

* * *

"Tell me more about your sons."

They were sitting outside, facing the water. She'd come in the afternoon this time; Mr. Berg had passed away the day before and something about that extra free time made Nell sad and restless.

"What is there to tell?" Mr. Borson's eye was unfocused as he looked out past the horizon.

"What are they like? You said one of them likes books, so they can't be too terrible," she joked. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. "They don't come to see you. Did you have a falling out?"

"Of sorts," said Mr. Borson. "With the one who likes books, as a matter of fact."

"Is he like you?" She tried to imagine Mr. Borson a much younger man, as she thought his son might appear, only slender and maybe glasses—she couldn't quite get there.

"No," he said, frowning. The answer was immediate and tinged with bitterness. "He's a troublemaker. Always has been. Not like—" He sighed and the bitterness fled. "Not like his brother."

"And him? Your non-bookish son?"

"Righteous," Mr. Borson tutted. "A bit bullheaded. They're both quite stubborn actually."

"I can't imagine where that comes from," Nell teased lightly. "Old man."

He smiled at her, her dig nothing more than a casual joke now.

"What was the fight about?"

Mr. Borson hesitated, and Nell believed she had pressed too far. Then he sighed and said quietly, "Several fights, in fact. He found out his mother and I were not his real parents, and that began it all."

"Adopted," Nell muttered, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "That must be hard."

"There is a family business. He wants it when I pass, his brother does not. I left it to my other son, the righteous one, instead."

"The one who doesn't want it?"

"Yet," Mr. Borson added. "He will, when he has grown more."

"I don't see the problem, why not give it to the son who wants it?" Nell frowned. It didn't make any sense, of course that would create a fight.

"You wouldn't understand," he snapped, and Nell was taken aback when she realized she had angered him.

"I'm trying to," she said quietly. "You love your sons, don't you? Wouldn't you want them both happy? If one doesn't want the family business and the other does, shouldn't…" She swallowed, the similarities clogging her throat with emotion and she tried not to think of her sister. "Shouldn't the solution be easy?" A horrible thought snuck into her brain and escaped out of her mouth before she could stop it, even as she recognized how insensitive it was: "Or does it matter that one of them isn't really your son?"

For a dangerous moment he said nothing in response, and she wondered if this time she had angered him permanently, forced a wedge in their strange companionship. He was staring at the water beyond his home. For Nell, the silence was unbearable.

"Careful, Eleanor," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "You are too naive."

Nell stared at him, feeling sheepish like a scolded child, and quietly apologized. Mr. Borson said nothing else, and she left not long after.

* * *

Nell worried over it all week, but when she came back next he seemed to be in better spirits. He spoke more about his sons, his late wife, and seemed to choke up a bit when he spoke of her loss. Nell found herself paying close attention when he mentioned his younger son, the one who wanted the family business. He sounded clever, charming, driven. She found herself trying to picture him often. The elder son sounded brawny, maybe a little dull, but well-meaning. Smaller ambitions, she thought. He was easier to imagine: fit, handsome, probably had the same blue eyes as Mr. Borson. Probably had a lot of girlfriends in high school. Nell scoffed. He would've been the type her sister liked.

"Your younger son," Nell said, while they sat again outside with the greying sky overhead, "what's his name?"

Mr. Borson stopped. He had been mid-story about how, once, he'd caught the younger playing a prank on the elder using a snake. Something shifted in his expression and Nell attempted to backtrack, wondering why a simple question about a name could get the old man so stiff.

"What have you brought today?" He glanced at the small coffee table situated between their chairs, where her latest book sat.

He was changing the subject and she, incredibly uncomfortable with the tension between them, grabbed at the opportunity to move past it.

" _Don Quixote_ ," she said.

"And what's this one about?"

"Why don't I get us something to eat, this will take a while," she said with a shaky smile.

She went inside to make lunch, deciding that despite his almost formal demeanor he was not above eating a turkey sandwich, when there was a flash on the horizon, kissing the hilltop just beyond Mr. Borson's house. Nell frowned. Lightning? It was a strange color—

She shook her head. Nope. Not getting involved with _that_ , whatever it was.

"Would you prefer your sandwich without cheese, Mr. Borson?" Nell poked her head outside again, shocked to see his chair was now unoccupied. What? "Mr. Borson?"

Her eyes spotted him already a good distance away, heading up the slope of the hill toward the light. There was nothing in that direction but a rising cliff, its height lifting away from the one on which his house already sat. She started after him and then hesitated, every instinct of hers screaming at her not to follow.

But he was just a harmless elderly man, and with those far-off stares he had so often she was starting to worry that his mind was going. She couldn't live with herself if he lost his way somehow, or God forbid fell down the cliff—

Nell sighed heavily and jogged after him. _I'm going to regret this._

"Mr. Borson!" she called, losing sight of him up the hill. She climbed after him, already wheezing with exertion. She had to stop for a few minutes halfway up just to catch her breath. "Okay, I get it, I won't call you an old man anymore. I am _clearly_ in worse shape than you—"

She stopped at the top, able to see out over the horizon. Near the cliff's edge, he sat with two much younger men, and Nell breathed her relief, though her curiosity nagged about the light and the identity of the two companions. Maybe these were the infamous sons. They had their backs to her and she hesitated to approach— _I should introduce myself, at least to the younger, he and I would probably get along—_ when Mr. Borson began to glow. _Glow_. Nell rubbed her eyes hard, sending sparks flashing beneath her eyelids, and when she opened them again the man had dissolved into little particles of golden light.

"You could be meant for greater things than making dinners for an old man, Eleanor." His voice sounded so _close_ , like he was right there, but he wasn't right there, he wasn't _anywhere_ —

"Nope," she said aloud, and the two men at the cliff's edge turned to look at her in astonishment. She didn't even notice, waving her hands like swatting a bug, as if she could swat away his voice. "Nope, _no_ , I am going _home_ —I knew not to follow that _stupid light_ —"

"Who are _you_?" At the smooth accent, Nell froze and let her eyes truly take in Mr. Borson's sons.

One was much slimmer than the other, though both oozed a sort of power and strength that was instantly intimidating. Nell swallowed her words with an audible gulp. The slimmer one wore an all-black, fitted suit, his hair jet black to match and slicked away from a severe, handsome face. The other, muscular and large, wore more casual clothes, and pieces of his long blond hair hung loose, his jaw rugged. The recognition dawned slowly.

"Thor," she pointed to the blond, "and Loki," and then pointed to the dark-haired one. As if she could forget either of them, after _New York_ —

"Yes, we know who _we_ are, girl," said Loki, voice thick with sarcasm and agitation to mask any other emotion.

 _The younger son...The one I always asked about, the one I thought I'd like…_

 _Oh my god..._

"Odin Borson," she murmured to herself. " _Odin. Borson._ " She smacked her forehead hard with a groan. "Oh, I'm such an idiot, why didn't I pay more attention to Norse mythology, he was _that Odin_ —" She groaned again. "Oh, _God_ , I called a _literal god_ an old man, on several occasions—"

"I will ask one more time," Loki growled, all shreds of patience gone. "Who are you?"

"How did you know my father?" Thor tacked on, the grief plainer on his face than on his brother's.

"This is _not_ happening, I'm leaving, I didn't see anything. Odin who?"

"I am not amused, mortal—"

Nell was attempting to back up when the woman appeared from a cloud of black and green smoke— _that wasn't there before_ —and the brothers ushered her behind them.

"Loki," Thor said in a clipped tone.

"Yes, yes." Loki waved his hand over her as they closed ranks to block her from the woman's sight and he hissed, "Not a sound, or the illusion will break."

She didn't ask what illusion, though she could guess something to hide her. They called the woman Hela, and it became clear she was Asgardian like them. Nell was barely paying attention, even when they transformed from normal clothes to Asgard armor. Why couldn't Loki just teleport her back down the hillside or something—

With a burst of lightning that made the hair on her arms stand up, Hela destroyed Thor's hammer, and that caught Nell's attention again. _Destroyed Thor's hammer._ _Fuck,_ Nell just wanted to go home and pretend none of this ever happened—

"Bring us back!" Loki's panicked voice called to the sky.

"No!" Thor roared, but it was too late.

With the cliff at her back there was nowhere to go, and a beam of light engulfed her and the brothers. She was sucked upwards, her stomach flipping, and screamed—Loki's eyes shot to her, as did Hela's. Had Loki forgotten she was there?

"Mortal," said Hela, and Nell squirmed away from her, blood rushing in her ears. "I wonder if your kind would survive a fall from the Bifrost." She grabbed onto Nell's arm, her nails digging in.

"Don't—"

Hela threw her like a ragdoll. She went careening through the iridescent wall of light and into darkness.

* * *

A/N: This is my first attempt at a Loki fanfiction! If you're here from my Star Wars story, _Caged Bird_ , welcome! I've been nervous about submitting this for a while because I've been lucky that my Star Wars fiction has been so well-received, felt like there was a lot of pressure for this one to be good as well. I also didn't want Nell to feel too much like Ana so it'll be a process making sure that she's written properly!

Thank you in advance for any follows/favorites and reviews!


	2. Gods Fall Faster

Her sister Erica was special, everyone said so. She was popular and well-liked, good at reading people. Nell had a habit of putting her foot in her mouth, saying too much and always the wrong thing, and Erica would swoop in and clean up the mess. Eventually, Nell stopped saying much at all, and for a few years Erica did all the talking for both of them. It wasn't truly Erica's fault, and she was never mad at Nell for it, but her entire existence just made Nell feel so…

 _Unnecessary._

But Erica being gone didn't give her purpose or make her "necessary." Erica being gone just meant her parents wouldn't really notice if she was gone, too.

* * *

She woke up with a gasp, feeling soft sheets around her clenched fingers, and released a relieved sigh. A dream. It'd just been a dream. As her eyes acclimated to the dim light of her room, so did her body—which meant an explosion of pain. She whimpered; her body ached, why did it ache?

"Mortals are so fragile," said a smooth voice, and Nell looked frantically for its owner. "Don't _wriggle_ so, stupid girl."

The man seated across from her was lounging in an armchair. The chair had clearly been moved from its original position—who put an armchair at the foot of a bed, _facing_ the bed? He looked unconcerned, dressed in tight-fitting armor of black and green leather—

"Loki," she breathed. "This is a hallucination, I'm going to wake up in a hospital—"

"Not quite, darling." Loki rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair, his legs crossing at the knee. "Though you did take quite the beating from your fall."

Fall.

"I got thrown from a space portal." She inhaled sharply, fighting the rising panic.

"Inelegant way of putting it—"

"I got _thrown_ from a _space portal_!"

Loki flinched. "My, you're shrill."

"How am I alive? Why are _you_ here? Where am I?" Her breath quickened, dangerously close to hyperventilating. This was wrong, everything was wrong— "Did you...Did you rescue me?"

"Don't be absurd," he snapped. "Hela pushed me out just after you so don't delude yourself into thinking I would willingly leap from the safety of the Bifrost for a stranger. A _mortal_ stranger."

"Right," she muttered, letting her head flop back against the pillows. She tested the movement of her arms, finding soreness but no resistance. Legs next. Movement, pain. Nothing broken, then. "Right. Then, how did I…"

"Gods fall faster." He shifted again, raised his chin haughtily as he called himself a god. "I happened to land under you."

"Happened," she repeated, staring at the ceiling. "You did, did you? And I suppose you shielded me from Hela by complete accident. Mr. Borson said Thor was the righteous one."

Loki stiffened. "Thor has a bleeding heart for you pathetic Midgardians, I needed him focused on Hela." He scowled at her then. "You don't sound incredibly grateful."

She licked her dry lips. "I'm grateful. I'm grateful I'm not dead, I'm not grateful that I'm here, I'm grateful you tried to shield me, I'm not grateful that I got roped into this in the first place—I don't understand, I was so _careful_ —"

"You made the mistake of being an acquaintance of Odin," Loki barked.

"How was I to know? It's _Norway_ , half the area was named from mythology, how was I to know he was the _real Odin_ , he didn't even cook for himself—"

Loki pressed hard on his temples. "Stop."

She clamped her mouth shut.

"One sentence at a time," he said low. "Your incessant babbling is _horrendously_ annoying. Is this how you always talk?"

Insulted, self-conscious, and still borderline panicked, she gnawed on her lower lip but said nothing.

"That's better," he said with a sigh. "What exactly were you to Odin?"

"I was his caretaker." The floodgates opened again. "You haven't answered me, where _are we_? Why am I in so much pain? How far did I fall?"

"I wasn't measuring distance, my sincerest apologies. What do you mean caretaker?"

"Did I...Did I break anything?" She hadn't tested sitting up yet. The panic hit full force despite her efforts to calm, memories of New York flooding back—jagged metal, broken glass, so much pain and then so much numbness—the weeks and weeks of rehabilitation—

"You're a bit banged up, no worse for the wear."

"How is that _possible_?"

He shrugged. "I must be rather soft to land on. I'll take a poll when I return to Asgard."

Even _if_ he had somehow cushioned her fall, something would still have broken right? She'd have wounds. Scrapes, fractures. Something more than some bruises and a sore ache.

"You didn't…"

"If you suggest that I wasted magic on your injuries, I will cut your tongue out," he hissed, and so she clamped quiet again. "By the Norns, you mortals are agitating. I grow tired of this." He stood from the chair and stormed out of the room, leaving Nell to her panicked breathing. The room was extravagant, lavishly furnished with large decorative rugs, gold accents, wall sconces—the bed she laid in was wide and comfortable. Where on _Earth_ were they? Why had Loki saved her, truly? There had to be more to it, for her to escape such a fall with nothing broken or ruptured, it wasn't possible.

Perhaps he wanted something. He _was_ the god of mischief and lies…

But what did she even have to offer?

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly through her nose. Why her? She had worked so _hard_ —she had done everything right—why couldn't she just live a normal life?

* * *

When she awoke again, Loki was back and once again watching her from the armchair. She pulled herself into a sitting position with a wince.

"Anyone ever tell you how creepy it is," she muttered, "watching someone sleep?"

"What does it entail?" he asked, ignoring her, his hands clasped together in front of his pursed lips. "A mortal, being a caretaker for Odin."

She sighed. Back on this again? She had so many more pressing questions—

"I'll only answer if you tell me where we are."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Bargaining, are we? Weak attempt, but I'll humor you. We're on the planet Sakaar. Thanks to my quick thinking and charm, we're guests of its ruler, the Grandmaster. _Esteemed_ guests, as it were."

"I don't want to know what that means," Nell murmured.

"Now, caretaker." Loki waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I cooked and kept him company."

Loki's nose wrinkled. "Kept him company. A _mortal_ kept the Allfather company." He scoffed and added, muttering, "Typical. Even in exile, he gets a servant."

Nell felt dangerously close to tears. _Not in front of this man, not now, not ever._ "When can I get out of this bed?"

"Whenever you like." He spread his hands in a harmless gesture, but the smirk on her face kept her suspicion high. "Though you may have to ask nicely for your clothes."

"My _what_?" She looked down at herself and saw bare skin, lifting the sheets to see more of the same. "Oh my god, why am I naked? Where are my clothes?" _My back, did he see_ —

Loki winced again and stuck his pinky in his ear. "Quiet, you banshee, quiet."

Her hand flew to her shoulders, reaching around to her spine to feel the raised, uneven skin. _Did he see? He must have seen_ —

But he wasn't saying anything about them, and she was too afraid to ask.

"Your clothes were covered in trash from when we landed. The Grandmaster provided new ones, they're right over—

" _Why_ am I _naked_?"

"Well how else was I supposed to examine you!" he shouted back. "You had a damned rod impaling your shoulder and a metal fragment tore a gash along the length of your leg. If, next time, you'd prefer that I leave you clothed and _dying_ , I will be certain to do so."

She knew it, she _knew_ her injuries would have been more severe. "So you did rescue me," she said in a small voice.

"Don't flatter yourself," he spat. "The only reason I give a single lick if you live or die is because when we were brought to the Grandmaster he seemed more interested in us as a pair and marginally less in me on my own. The moment I begin to outshine you, you will be forfeit." He stood from his chair, grabbed a fistful of fabric that hung over the arm, and threw it at her. "Get dressed. It's time you meet our gracious host."

* * *

 _He didn't care about the mortal girl._

 _She was weak, small and pathetic, like looking at an abandoned puppy. She was calling Odin by his surname—" Mr. Borson."—and gaping between Loki and Thor with fearful recognition. How had this girl come to know the Allfather? Why would Odin associate with someone so...ordinary after what had happened with Thor's precious Jane Foster? The resentment for the girl was immediate, but Thor's concern for her safety was quicker as their sister Hela materialized._

 _Thor, ever the hero—of course he'd want to protect the Midgardian, look at where his heroics had gotten them up until now—_

 _And honestly when he'd called for the Bifrost he thought it would've left the Midgardian there, just like he thought it would've left Hela there, and if the little mortal kept quiet like he'd told her to, Hela would never have even noticed her. Probably._

 _It didn't much matter one way or the other to him, because he didn't care about the mortal girl._

 _He didn't even care about the mortal girl when she was chucked from the Bifrost, too busy worrying about his own safety, and he certainly didn't care about the girl when he came to on a trash planet next to her mangled, unconscious form. _

_And he definitely didn't force his magic to stitch up her skin and stop the bleeding long enough for them to be discovered and brought before the Grandmaster, and without any witnesses he dared anyone to try and prove otherwise._

 _His brother's influence had not made him soft._

 _He just had good, sound judgement on when someone, even a pathetically breakable Midgardian, could be useful._

 _The Grandmaster had seemed intrigued, at their seemingly rapid healing abilities, the nature of their arrival, and—Loki noticed with a disgusted shudder—in Loki himself. And though Loki initially thought his best chance was capitalizing on that slightly hungry way the Grandmaster looked at him—he could just let the girl die of her injuries, they were still severe enough, she'd fade without any more of his magic—one line from the Grandmaster stopped him:_

 _"So rare to have such an interesting duo, I can't wait until she wakes up."_

 _So the Grandmaster wanted a duo._

 _She was sure to lose his interest once she was awake, what would a girl like that have to offer? Loki could be patient._

 _Damn. It looked like the mortal would have to live._


	3. Storyteller

A/N: This took quite a while. I've scoured the film for scenes involving the Grandmaster but it's incredibly hard to describe the building/rooms that he lived in as we only get a few scenes and it's densely packed with people/extras and rather tight in on Thor. I did my best and hopefully the chapter as a whole is worth the wait!

* * *

Loki led her through the grand hallways in the same style as the bedroom—high ceilings, gold _everywhere_ , women in impractical gowns drifting about, mixed with neon and metal and square edges. Like the entire building had been built from salvage and then painted over to look prettier. But it didn't feel elegant or lavish, it felt…

Loki glanced at her face and scoffed quietly, his hand hard and possessive on the small of her back. "Just like a mortal to be enthralled by this. It reeks of Midgardian taste. You would _weep_ in the halls of Asgard. I bet you consider this—"

"Cheap," she murmured.

Loki's brow furrowed. "What was that?"

"It looks cheap." She wrinkled her nose. "That gold can't be real, right? It looks fake. And the clothes _look_ fancy and shimmery, but…" She fingered the edge of her sleeve. The dress that their host had apparently provided her might as well have been strips of ribbon; putting it on had required several different _separate_ pieces. It had long sleeves but a form-fitting bodice with several cutouts, bits of her skin peeking through, knotted at her knees and then fishtailed out. She adjusted it again to ensure her important bits were still covered, though the material was so thin that with the slightest chill it wouldn't matter if they were covered or not. "It all still feels kind of... _built_ , yknow? Not bought."

Loki looked mildly surprised and then the expression faded back to its regular disdain. "Don't let the Grandmaster hear that astute observation." He pulled her hand away from her dress. "And stop _fidgeting,_ you look fine."

"I know I look fine." She rolled her eyes when he again raised a delicate, dark eyebrow. "Well, no, I look a little like a bike reflector, don't I? All this blue and shiny bits? The fabric is just so itchy. I've always had problems with fabrics, or shirt tags, or seams on the toes of my socks—"

"What are you blathering about now?"

"I've got a sensitivity thing," she insisted. "This dress is really starting to chafe, can't I just go back and change before we—"

"No." He went from firmly guiding to forcefully pulling, his hand like a vice grip around her arm. "How would that look to our host?"

"Loki, this dress will bother me the whole time—"

"Then take it off and go naked," he hissed. "But you are not _changing_."

* * *

The ostentatious surroundings had given quite the heavy-handed clue as to how their "host" might appear. He was a flamboyant man, his face aged, with flashy clothes and makeup on his eyes and lips. _Like space-Liberachi._

That comparison was almost funny enough that she forgot how her skin felt like ants were crawling under it. The Grandmaster smiled widely at them as they approached. He was seated in a wide, white chair lined brilliantly in turquoise. _A throne_.

"My friends!" he said. "She's awake, how wonderful. I've been waiting to talk to her, haven't I, Topaz?"

Topaz was a stern-faced woman who stood beside the Grandmaster holding a staff. She looked unimpressed by the two in front of her, an expression that made Nell think the Grandmaster made a lot of new friends often.

"It's not everyday someone falls from the sky, no ship." The Grandmaster made a gesture of something slamming into the ground. "And rarer still that they don't crack like an egg on impact." The Grandmaster looked at Nell. " Well you sort of did."

Nell gave Loki a sidelong glance and scratched at where the sleeve touched her wrist.

"So interesting," the Grandmaster went on. "Your companion here has just the neatest magic tricks."

"Does he?" Nell murmured. _God I just want to get out of this dress—_

"What can you do?"

Nell blinked. "What?"

Loki was a mask of impenetrable calm, but she could see the tension in his shoulders when the Grandmaster asked again, "What can you do? I assume as his partner with the whole…" He gestured again, this time miming almost like rain. "Sky-falling, that you have some equally entertaining skill up your sleeve."

Loki's brow wrinkled, his feathers finally ruffled. "She isn't my—"

"Yes," Nell interrupted, watching the answering frown on the Grandmaster's face as Loki nearly denied the connection that made them interesting in the first place. Topaz, she could tell, was particularly wary of them. "I'm not magical, though."

She swallowed her fear and stepped closer to Loki, who looked as if he'd rather set her on fire than let her touch him. The expression changed however when he realized the Grandmaster was watching carefully. _God of Lies,_ she reminded herself when he smiled and let her pull his arm to her chest. He was firm beneath the armor, more muscular than she would have thought, and it was another reminder of New York that made her tremble.

"That's saved all for him," she said after clearing her throat. She gave a weak smile, but it seemed to fool the Grandmaster well enough.

He clapped his hands together. "Fantastic, I do love some variety. So, uh—oh, I don't have a name for you," he snapped his fingers at Loki, "what's her name?"

"Her...name," Loki repeated.

"I asked that, didn't I? Does she not have one? Topaz, give her a name, you are excellent at naming our contenders—"

"Nell, my name is Nell."

The Grandmaster scrunched his face. "Nell?"

"Nell?" Loki murmured.

"Short for Eleanor," Nell mumbled. She did not want Topaz "naming" her…

"How is that short for Eleanor?" the Grandmaster asked. "I guess if you jumble up the letters. But wouldn't El be short for Eleanor? Or Nor?"

"Nell," she reiterated firmly. "N-E-L-L."

"Nell. Not a very nice name. So your skill is…"

"Cooking," she answered quickly, her tongue fumbling over the word as she realized how _utterly stupid that sounded out loud_ —

"That's…" The Grandmaster paused. "A bit bland, I'm not going to lie. A little banal. Cooking? You cook as...a talent."

"Yes." She swallowed thickly. "I'm…I'm very good."

The Grandmaster regarded her for a minute, Topaz's face growing more and more smug. Nell had said something wrong. What else was a talent? What else could she do? Her last three years had been taking care of elderly people and reading books—

"Stories!" she said then, and the Grandmaster's expression shifted. Beside her, she could feel Loki's chest jerk as he tried to contain his laughter. _Smug asshole…_ "I...I can tell stories!"

Topaz thrust the staff at the Grandmaster, openly smirking at Nell now. The Grandmaster frowned. "Why are you giving me the Melt Stick, I didn't ask for the Melt Stick." Topaz's smirk dropped. "Stories are better! I love a good story, why don't you tell me one now?"

Nell's throat was dry. "Alright."

She wracked her brain for a short one, a good one, suddenly sure that while she needed to prove herself right now she probably needed to save any longer stories for later. Because of her surroundings and the lingering sense of panic, the only story that came to mind was Guy de Maupassant's "The Necklace." _He might like that._

 _If he doesn't, apparently he'll just...melt…me…_

She coughed slightly and set to work on the story: a woman born into a low-class family, desperate to be a part of aristocratic society, marries a clerk who just wants to make her happy. He manages to get an invitation for them to a high-class party, but the wife refuses to go, claiming she doesn't want to be embarrassed since she has nothing to wear. The husband gives her money he'd been saving so she can buy a gown, but she still isn't happy, and decides to ask her well-off friend if she may borrow a piece of jewelry for the party. She picks out a fancy diamond necklace to wear, but loses it at the party. Distraught, she attempts to replace the piece, discovering the price of a similar necklace is tens of thousands—much more than the couple could ever afford. In order to purchase the necklace, they sell everything they own and take huge loans. Ten years later, now destitute, she runs into her friend again and recounts the whole story of losing and replacing the necklace. The friend then informs her that the original necklace was fake, worth nothing more than a few hundred.

The Grandmaster listened intently to her story, nodding a few times along with her words, and when Nell was through he clapped his hands together once, startling her.

"I like you, Nell," said the Grandmaster with a glittery smile.

Nell sighed, relieved, and ignored the sour faces of both Loki and Topaz. The former, not to be outdone, closed his hand hard around her arm and said, "Thank you, Grandmaster, you're truly generous with your compliments. Would you excuse us?"

"Of course, she must still be tired from the fall. Rest up, rest up, but join me tonight, won't you? I'm having a party and you two really must attend."

Loki got her into the hall, face pinched.

"Stories," he muttered.

"What?"

"You're going to tell him _stories_ ," Loki hissed. "Are all mortals so utterly useless?"

"You're just mad because he seemed to like me," Nell said defensively.

Loki's expression shifted. "Like you," he repeated. "Yes, he did, didn't he? He'd be quite insulted if we didn't attend his party tonight if he's so fond of you. He may even ask you to tell another story."

The mischievous glint was back in his eye and it put her on edge.

"What...kind of party?"

* * *

Loki had "escorted" her back to her room—it was more like dragging than anything else—and told her with a smirk to change into whatever she liked before vanishing. Off to his own room, she imagined. In hers she discovered a closet and dresser full of new clothes. Dresses, most of them, in varying colors and fabrics and strange designs. She selected the one that was the softest, deciding if she had to sit through an entire party in something as uncomfortable as the first outfit, she'd go downright insane.

The softest one was a lighter blue, with short sleeves and a cascading waterfall waist. Not something she'd ever wear back home, that much was certain, but she supposed it was a lesser of several evils. She had just slipped the fabric over her shoulders when there was a knock at her door.

She opened her mouth to ask for just a few more minutes, but there was a whoosh and Loki was striding into her room with long, confident steps. She squeaked, hurrying to pull the dress all the way over herself.

"What was the point of knocking?" she asked meekly.

He raised an eyebrow—she was getting very sick of that expression. "I thought you'd appreciate the manners."

"You didn't wait for me to let you in!"

He scoffed. "My politeness only extends so far, mortal."

"Stop calling me that, I've got a name!"

"Yes, yes," he dismissed. His nose wrinkled. " _Nell_."

"Do you have something to say about my name, _Loki_?"

His gaze narrowed, eyes seeming to darken. "Don't think for a moment that we are _familiar_ , Eleanor. I can be a gentleman when the situation calls for it, but a frail Midgardian _child_ does _not_ warrant it."

"I'm not a child," she muttered, and she cursed inwardly at how whiny that sounded. What she wouldn't give to wipe that smug grin from his face, to match his attitude and palpable distaste, to go tit-for-tat in this verbal war—

" _You are too naive, Eleanor."_

"Odin was right," she said to herself, adjusting the neckline of the dress when it threatened to slide.

His expression got even colder, as if he'd heard her. "Come," he said, offering an icy arm, "we've a party to attend, _storyteller_."

Nell had never been big into parties back on Earth. Didn't much like them. Too loud, too busy, lots of smiling and idle chit-chat no one cared about, lots of people judging you but no one saying as much. Parties sucked.

Loki led her forcibly down the hall. She imagined to other people he might look the part of the proper gentleman, but in reality he was practically dragging her and his grip on her arm was far too tight. She'd probably bruise if he didn't let go soon.

He was wearing a variation on his leather armor, its colors changed to blue and yellow—the colors, she imagined, of their host. Wheedling, manipulative, brown-nosing—

"I can't believe I told Odin we'd get along," she mumbled as he towed her towards a set of tall mechanical doors.

His head snapped in her direction. "What was that?"

She flushed, cheeks burning. _Can't believe he heard that._ "I said—"

"I don't need you to _repeat_ it, simpleton," he hissed. "Why were you and Odin talking about me? For what purpose?"

"He...He just talked about his family."

"His _family_." Loki scoffed, voice dripping with poison. "I'm not his _family_."

"Just because you're not his true son doesn't mean he didn't care—"

In a flash of movement and a grunt of pain, Nell was thrown against the wall. Loki's entire body weight pressed against her, his teeth bared like an animal in a vicious snarl, his forearm pressing into her throat.

" _He told you_?" Loki demanded.

Nell's blush dropped to her neck, the heat traveling along her skin like fire, tempered by her fear. "Y-Yes," she gasped out.

" _He told a sniveling little mortal my true parentage_?"

"H-He…" She struggled to inhale but the pressure of his arm on her didn't let up. "He just said you were adopted."

" _He knew you for what, a month? Less?_ " Loki moved his arm from her neck and she inhaled so quickly she coughed, but the relief was short-lived as he simply readjusted until his fingers were wrapped around her throat and he was actively choking her. " _He lied to me for years but he has no trouble spilling his transgression to_ _you_ —"

"L-Loki!" she wheezed, scrabbling at his hand.

" _What makes you so special_?"

Her legs flailed—when had he lifted her from the floor, his anger all-encompassing—and her knee connected hard with his groin. Pain reared across his tortured expression and he dropped her. She collapsed in a heap, coughing heartily now and spluttering, touching her throat tenderly.

"Filthy, wretched mortal," he spat at her.

"Beastly, childish _god_ ," she rasped back, her windpipe screaming.

Something like hurt flashed across his features and then he was reaching for her again and she winced. But he didn't move to harm her again. Instead, he reached for her arm and pulled her to her feet—a little gentler this time, she could've sworn, but it was probably just her imagination—and muttered, "We don't want to be late."

"Are you _kidding_?" Her voice still sounded a little rough, a little croaking. "I'm not going to the _party_ , I'm not going _anywhere with you after_ —"

"If you want to survive here," he said in a low voice, "we need to keep the Grandmaster happy. Just fake it, for a few hours. You humans are supposed to be practiced liars, aren't you?"

 _Not as practiced as you._ Nell bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted the tang of her own blood. He wasn't threatening her, he was warning her. The Grandmaster was in charge, a little bit nutty, and used to getting his way. Loki was right. Better not to piss off the guy with the Melt Stick.

"A few hours," she said. "B-But you so much as look at my neck and I'll…" She trailed off. What, really, could she do?

To his credit, Loki didn't point out her helplessness or mock her for her pathetic attempt at a threat. He simply nodded.

"Let me do the talking."

She breathed deeply again, hoping he didn't notice how relieved that sentiment made her feel. The man holding her arm terrified her, could kill her, but he was unfortunately her only ally on this planet.

 _I'm going to die here, aren't I?_


End file.
